


A Collection of Loosely-related MCU One-shots

by buckydeservedmorepassiton (brummiebex)



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Bucky Barnes Recovering, F/M, Frenemies Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Minor Tony Stark/Stephen Strange, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Tony Stark Does What He Wants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-03-09 04:25:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18909514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brummiebex/pseuds/buckydeservedmorepassiton
Summary: A great, big, (probably) never-ending collection of MCU one-shots based off of prompts, requests, and fix-it feelz.





	1. a minor war fought over a cup of Stark's pretentious, (yet delicious) coffee.

**Author's Note:**

> The one where Natasha and Bucky 'fight'.

* * *

It was one of those rare, weird, empty days at the compound, where there was nothing happening in the world that needed the Avenger's _immediate_ attention. There were no rogue gods to catch, no covert military excursions to go on, no regimes to topple. No, the past few days were completely and utterly normal—something none of the compound’s inhabitants had ever mastered being.

Tony and Pepper had gone back to the city, dragging Peter by his ear home to his Aunt May, leaving the rest of the gang upstate. Bruce had hibernated to his lab, having been bored absolutely senseless by Sam’s ramblings the night before. Wanda and Vision disappeared, the way they usually did after a spell of being apart. Clint went home to his family, like he normally did, as well. Just then, only Sam, Natasha, Steve, and Bucky were up and around the compound’s common spaces.

Steve was curled up on the couch—and it took a whole lot of mutual respect for none of the remaining three to point it out—with his legs tucked under himself, and his eyes trained deftly on the pages of a novel. He didn’t have time to read often, so whenever he has the chance, he attempts to make a dent in the list of must-reads the others had put together for him. Although it was barely nine in the morning, he’d been up for a few hours now; first at the gym, then for a jog around the compound, then after a shower he found himself right there, reading. And he’d gone uninterrupted for just over an hour, until Sam and Bucky came barreling in.

The two of them could never enter a room quietly, Steve thought to himself. They weren’t even _talking,_ their mere existence in any space was just _loud_. The interruption came in the ruffle of gym bags tossed onto the couch, sneakers against tile, the whir of mechanical fingers tinkering with the espresso machine, and the clinks of coffee cups.

“You should ice that.” Bucky’s gruff voice finally fills the open space. Sam makes a disgruntled sound. “C’mon man, it’ll bruise.”

“Just because I don’t have liquid steel going through my blood like you old coots doesn’t mean I won’t heal up, buddy.”

“Woah,” Bucky coos, mock offense thick in his voice, and takes a sip of his coffee, “So hostile, Sammy.”

“Sam, please ice yourself.” Steve calls, not even bothering to look up from his book.

He grumbles something in response, and Bucky snickers at him, then,“What ‘cha readin’, Cap?”

“1984.”

 “Makin’ progress on that list, then,” Bucky observes, “How many left? Twelve? Thirteen?”

“Ten.” Steve nods.

Bucky hops up on his tiptoes, glancing over the back of the sofa to peek at Steve—noticing that he was, indeed, quite curled up with George Orwell’s 1984. He makes a face—a cross between some sort of romantic admiration and a devious smile—that makes Sam shiver.

“Ew.” He hobbles off of the barstool towards the freezer to follow Cap’s orders (only because it was _Cap_ askin’ him to, not _at all_ because his ankle had begun throbbing). “Get a fuckin’ room.”

Just before Steve could manage a monotone _‘Language’_ , a disheveled little redhead pops through the doorway.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Natasha gasps, then quickly regains her composure, “You all are up early.”

“No, you’re just up late,” Sam calls, half of his body in the freezer.

Natasha glances at the clock on the wall. She was normally the first person to rise in the compound—if she even slept, that is. But last night she _had_ slept—wonderfully, solidly and completely through the night for the first time in what felt like ages—and she'd slept _in_ , too.

“Oh.” She acknowledges Sam’s jab, and brushes pass him, towards the coffee machines, “Move it, greaseball.”

Bucky doesn’t even retaliate, he just shimmies to the side, allowing her some room.

“You fuckers used all of the coffee?” She groans, smacking Bucky’s shoulder with the empty bag. “Nice.”

“ _Language_.” Steve calls, but it falls on deaf ears.

“This place has nine hundred kitchens, I bet theres more coffee somewhere.” Bucky suggests.

“It’s the principle.” She hums, rolling up onto her tiptoes to fetch the teabags, but falling short a few inches of the shelf. Passively, Sam reaches up and takes the box down for her.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“Yes, Sam?” The AI replies in a cheery voice.

“Is there any more of Stark’s pretentious imported coffee?”

“I’m afraid not. Would you like me to order some?”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” Sam scratches his jaw.

“I’ll get right on it.” She supplies, then cuts off with a little click sound.

“Can I have a sip, then?” She frowns at Bucky’s cup.

“Absolutely fucking not.” He replies, not missing a beat.

“But I hate tea.”

“I know.” He smiles cheerily. “That’s why I’ll watch you suffer through earl gray while I savor my coffee.”

This time, her voice seems serious. “I want a sip, Barnes.”

“Just a sip,” Sam says, directing it towards Bucky, as he settles a little plastic baggie of ice on his ankle.

“Shut it, pseudo-gimp.” Bucky points at Sam. “No coffee, Tasha. Drink your hot leaf water.”

She juts her palm out, almost touching the warm ceramic mug, but Bucky moves it away just in time. A grin plasters itself across his lips and a devilish giggle escapes him, which quickly gains Steve’s attention.

Of all of the things for Steve to glance up and witness, Bucky and Natasha seemingly dueling over a cup of coffee was not one he could have predicted. It seemed innocent enough—all three of his best friends were smiling and laughing, the two more dexterous ones dancing around the kitchen island as that coffee cup remained in Bucky’s metal hand, perfectly upright, not spilling even the tiniest bit. A small smile played at Steve's lips at the strange show of domesticity, especially it being between two people who rarely let themselves go.

That smile quickly grew puzzled as Natasha’s grasps for the coffee mug turned into well-placed strikes on Bucky’s body, and Bucky’s evasions grew more tactile and combat-like. The book in his hands was quickly dog-eared and set aside as he watched the encounter evolve.

Still holding his coffee mug in his left hand, Bucky began using his right forearm to block Natasha’s strikes, even jumping back just in time to avoid getting kicked in the chest. Steve considers intervening, but the oddest thing kept him seated—the pair was still laughing.

Through kicks and punches and fists to the torso, both of them were chuckling between blows, and Sam—well Sam had turned to his phone and begun recording them. _For posterity,_ he would argue, _but also for Barton, y’know, since he’s missing it._

“No—no coffee,” Bucky gasps between laughs and grunts, quickly evading Natasha’s blows.

“Does this happen often?” Steve asks Sam, genuinely wondering. The two seem comfortable playing with each other this way, so Steve can only imagined he’d missed one or to fake spar sessions in the kitchen.

“Normally only when you aren’t around to stop them, Grandpa.” Sam snorts, panning his camera over to Steve. He smiles at it.

“Give me the coffee, you little _shit_!” Natasha laughs, still striking him with ease—but he was too quick, even holding a full cup of coffee in one hand.

So, she grabbed the dishrag from its spot on the refrigerator and quickly whipped at Bucky’s abdomen. Just _how_ Natasha knew Bucky was ticklish was a conversation for another day—but Steve watched as Natasha got exactly what she wanted. Bucky, all six and a half feet of him, doubled over to cover his stomach, keeping the coffee mug up high in the air where Nat could easily slip it from his fingers.

He groaned at the sudden defeat. “Mother fuc—“

“Language,” Steve grins over at the trio, watching Natasha contentedly sip from the mug.


	2. Pepper Potts-Stark always knows best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where we find out Peter can bench-press a Prius.

* * *

“What did I say?” Tony yells, frustration tinting his face a dangerous red. “What was the _one_ thing I said to you, Parker? The one thing I told you was non-negotiable?”

Bucky clears his throat, and although Steve puts a warning hand on his shoulder, he still pipes up to defend the youngest Avenger. “Tony, it’s not the kid’s fault. We got separated and—”

“Shut it, James.” He snaps, cutting Bucky’s sentence in half; there wasn’t one jab, one rude nickname, nor a hint of his normal trademark Stark sarcasm in his voice, either. He’d used Bucky’s real name, too, which was more than enough to shut him down.

“You told me to stay behind them.” Peter says quietly from his place on the couch.

“Bingo!” Tony claps his hands together, “Right on the nose, Pete. What—what happened, did you forget? I told you two things before you left: listen to Cap, and if shit hit the fan, stay behind Bucky. Two things! Why do you insist on not listening to me?”

“But I did, Mr. Stark—”

“Then why the _hell_ did Strange just have to take _four_ bullets out of you?”

“Four?” Both Cap and Bucky snap at Peter. Bucky’s voice hitches in surprise, “What the hell, kid? You said they’d just grazed you!”

“And you believed him?” Tony redirects his anger towards the super soldiers. “You knew they’d shot at him, and you didn’t think to check him for _holes_?”

Peter pipes up, "Well in my defense—" 

" _No,"_ All three men say in unison, then return to their argument.

If there was one thing everyone in that building agreed on, it was the fact that Peter Parker was _too_ similar to Tony. They're both brilliant—arguably too brilliant for their own good—and self-sacrificing to no end. He'd take bullets, and jump in front of cars, all without batting an eye. Although he was officially an Avenger in the eyes of the team, the public  _and_ the federal government, he was also still a kid— and that was something all of them needed to remember. Because when they didn't, he emulated Tony and got himself riddled with bullets. 

The argument had gotten louder in a few moments—and Peter was growing worried that it would evolve into fisticuffs.

"G—Guys?"

They didn't listen to him, had they even heard him over their bickering. But that also meant that they hadn't heard the tell-tale clicking of Pepper Stark's heels as she entered the room. 

Peter, of course, felt her enter the room. She smiles at him, a warm, knowing smile, and Peter, having grown almost as adept as Tony at reading Pepper's smiles, knew that it was one that said  _I know you fucked up, but I still love you._ He could almost sigh in relief. Pepper could handle Tony's anger better than anyone else.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y.? What's happening here?" She asks the air.

The AI system, well accustomed to picking her voice out under Tony's rambling, hears her and supplies, "It seems Tony and the Icicles are having a debate concerning who is at fault for Mr. Parker's injuries." 

" _Hey_!" Tony barks, cutting through their argument, "That was supposed to be our little thing. Fri, listen—you can't go around giving out all my great nicknames."

"Sorry, Boss. Should I address Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes as such?"

"Absolutely not. I like 'the Icicles'." 

Steve folds his arms across his chest, and Peter stifles a snort. The latter makes Tony's scowl reappear.

"Lookit, Spidey, you're still in trouble. We aren't done here—"

"Well, what's the matter now?" Pepper’s gentle voice cuts Tony’s off—or rather, he’d learned to _immediately_ stop talking whenever Pepper began, because odds are, she’d probably be the one making more sense.

Tony folds his arms. _Yes,_ he thought, _unleash Mrs. Stark’s wrath on the Icicles._ That would be fun to watch. “The Icicles got Pete shot at.”

But Pepper, with a swish of blonde hair and an unbothered wave of her hand, just nods, “I heard.”

Bucky, the only one who hadn’t been looking at Pepper, slowly turns to face her. She walks over to the couch where the kid was sitting, tosses his blanket back, and settles next to him, allowing him to rest his head on her shoulder.

“Is that why you’re yelling?” She furrows her eyebrows.

“Well,” Tony glares at her. “Yes—and you were supposed to join in on my yelling. We were supposed to make a _combined_ effort to yell at the Icicles.”

“Would you _stop_ it with the nicknames?” Bucky snaps.

“Yeah, it’s not nice, Tony.”Pepper nods, swiping a hand over Peter’s hair.

“You're not angry?” Tony asks, although it’s more of an observation, quirking an eyebrow at his wife.

She shrugs. “I stopped getting angry—what, the fourth, fifth time you got shot?”

“But this is Pete we’re talking about—”

“Yeah, and _Pete_ got bitten by a magic spider—or _whatever_ —and could bench-press a Prius if he tried. Strange says he’s fine—he’s already healing himself.” She rolls her eyes, “And, Tony, you get yourself shot at _at least_ twice a month. If I got angry at you that often I’d have hypertension.”

Tony narrows his eyes at Peter. "You got lucky, kid." Then, pointing at the two super-soldiers, "You too." 

"How's that?" Bucky grins at Tony.

Tony sniffs, hesitant to admit his defeat just yet. "Because," He points at Pepper, who was passively stroking Pete's hair, observing their conversation, "She makes the decisions around here, and she's decided that she likes  _him_ a bit more than she likes me, right now." 

* * *

 


	3. winter holidays at the Avengers compound.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas fic in May for no reason other than I really wanted to write a Christmas fic. 
> 
> IronFrost pairing, but not really? Not a sexual pairing, but an emotional one, where they're really close but don't exactly want the others finding out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where the Odinsons dominate Christmas, and Loki wears pink flannel pajamas.

* * *

 

Of all the mortal holidays, the Odinsons were the most fond of Christmas.

Natasha had claimed Halloween as her own favorite holiday, year after year forcing them all to dress up in costumes for charity. But even the little assassin’s killer yearly party had nothing on the Odinsons’s Christmas festivities. Thor would put the color red _everywhere_ he physically could _:_ stockings on fireplaces, towels in all the kitchens and bathrooms, the rugs in the common spaces, _everywhere._

Loki was personally more of a fan of greens, although just as, if not arguably _more_ festive than his blond brother.He’d switch his normal all-black attire for the darkest of green suits, but, subtle as it was, the change was one the entire team noticed, along with his addition of red and green nail polish.

Thor was in charge of the decor which, to him, meant red textiles and tinsel _everywhere_. No one complained though—the blankets were most cozy— and it made Thor happy to share his love for the exceptional holiday season. 

This left Loki in charge of everything else—and damn, did he do it well.

He was a little more patient, so it all starts after December begins. The common spaces in the compound would all smell characteristically _Christmassy_ : spicy cinnamon and nutmeg, rich vanilla and hazelnut, and fresh, clean pine. Somehow, the scents never overwhelmed the nose, and managed to make everyone relax a little. It’s all very comforting and warm, but he didn’t stop there. Every kitchen countertop would get a platter of fresh seasonal treats—cinnamon buns, gingerbread men, sugar cookies—and eggnog seemed to materialize at every meeting.

But the most elaborate part of Loki’s preparations, and Tony’s favorite bit by far, is the tree.

He sets it up in the great hall, the large thoroughfare of the residential levels, where most of the Avengers find themselves at some point in the day. It’s always huge—twelve or so feet tall— and a _real, honest-to-god, fresh from the lot pine tree._ Four Christmases have passed since the tradition started, and no one is really sure how he gets it into the building. Clint had once demanded that Tony check the surveillance to explain it once and for all, but as his reputation as a trickster might suggest he would, Loki had covered all of the cameras—with a polaroid of one of Tony’s old headshots, nonetheless.

It was always beautiful, and this year was no exception—if anything, Loki had definitely topped last year’s. He’d gone for a minimalist theme this year: the ornaments were milky white, with frosted pine branches peppering the display, but appeased Thor with sprigs of holly berries densely set throughout, allowing for a beautiful sweep of color against the green and white. Gold-frosted pine cones also sat on the tree, as well as some of Thor’s tinsel. But the piece of resistance—what everyone was waiting for—was the tree topper.

You see, the first year it had been a six-inch tall version of Peter, sat cross-legged and winking atop the giant blue and red themed tree. The second year was Cap, with angel wings. Third came Natasha— which she liked so much that they’d kept her somewhere on the tree every Christmas after. Fourth was Thor, with his red cape draped elegantly over the tree.

This year the gang had placed their bets on the topper being either Sam or Wanda, because Loki’d solemnly sworn never to put Clint nor Tony on one of his trees, because they’d both pestered him about it.

But surprisingly, atop the beautiful red and gold tree sat a miniature version of the Mark IX, in Tony’s signature pose with his arm out.

Clint did a lot of yelling, and swore he’d find the raven-haired trickster and demand to know why he’d been overlooked for this year’s topper, but eventually calmed down when handed one of Loki’s warm cinnamon rolls.

No one had seen Loki for the rest of the evening, and eventually decided on each retiring to their respective floors in the compound—but Tony watched them all covertly pair up. Bucky’s hand found its spot on Cap’s waist as just as the elevator doors began to close. Clint and Natasha had started off in the same direction, although the entrance to Clint’s apartment was in the west wing of the Tower. Vision and Wanda, too, had disappeared together, although that pair did much less to hide it. Eventually, it was just Bruce and Tony left behind in the great hall.

“You think they suspect it?” Bruce asks, taking a little sip of his eggnog.

“What?” Tony asks, tearing his eyes away from the miniature version of himself atop the tree. “Oh—I don’t think so.”

“I do.” Bruce says, “Nat I think _knows,_ but I think Bucky’s just pieced it together.”

Tony taps his glass before finishing it off. “No way—unless you’ve told them—they’re all clueless.”

“I haven’t. He threatened my _balls_ , you know.” Banner grumbles, and watching Tony hop up out of his chair, “Well, where you off to?”

“To thank a certain someone for my spot on top the tree.”

Bruce chokes on his eggnog.

 

***

 

“You put me on the tree.” Tony walks into Loki’s apartment, without any announcement, and says matter-of-factly.

“I put your suit on the tree.” Loki responds from somewhere further in the apartment.

Tony grumbles, but finds himself unnaturally calmed by the ambiance in the trickster’s living room. Christmas music—a piano rendition of O Holy Night, to be precise—is playing somewhere in the space, wafting through the lofty apartment with ease. His fireplace is lit, so the thick smell of hot maple sits high in the air, with notes of vanilla and apple peaking through it. Thor’s tyrannical placing of red blankets evidently didn’t make it to his brother’s quarters, because the decor is mostly creams and deep forest greens.

“Still—you put _my_ suit up on the tree.” Tony returns to his argument. “We agreed—”

“We _agreed_ that I’d put whoever I felt like putting on _my_ Christmas tree.” He appears, folding his arms across his chest.

Tony wanted to snap back with a quick, witty response, but his mouth goes dry at the sight of him.

Loki, for reasons he’d probably never explain, wasn’t wearing his usual ‘Midgardian’ clothes. Evidently, his Christmas spirit reached into pajama territory as well. He’s wearing a pretty pink, too-big t-shirt, that Tony swears looks like the _softest_ material he’d ever seen, and a pair of red plaid flannel pajama pants.Tony furrows his eyebrows and fixes his gaze on the print.

Sensing judgmental eyes, Loki tightens his arms across his chest. “What are you doing here, anyway? It’s not Thursday yet.”

Tony furrows his brows more, and Loki reads his unasked question.

“You don’t normally make your way up here until later in the week. Around Thursday, usually.” Loki straightens his posture and glares.

Tony deadpans “You take notes on when I come to see you?”

Loki sighs, and frowns. “Pardon me for making note of the _few_ patterns in your erratic behavior.”

It’s silent for a moment, and Tony pouts. 

“You put me on the tree.” Tony says, finally remembering the reason for his trip—the tree.

“I did.” Loki says, pressing his lips into a thin line. “I don’t understand why you hate the idea so much—it’s just a tree-topper, Tony.”

“I don’t hate it,” Tony frowns— _it did seem like he hated it, didn’t it?_ —and stumbles to get his words out “I was just stopping by to say thank you.”

Loki leans back on his heels and narrows his eyes. “‘Thank you’?”

“Yeah. Thank you.“ He nods, allowing a smile to take over his lips. “You almost made Clint cry.”

“He’ll have to change his costume before he’ll ever be on one of my trees—a purple Christmas tree just disrespects the holiday.”

Tony laughs, a hearty sound that makes even the coldest of men crack a smile. "That it does."

"How's Pepper?" 

"Good," He nods, "Still in the city. She'll be back in time for Christmas though." 

"That's wonderful." Loki's smooth voice fills the space between them. He extends a hand towards the couch, and heads to his bar cart to fix Tony a drink. "And Peter—is he any closer to guessing his present?" 

"He's convinced it's a new suit." Tony sighs, enjoying the soft plush of Loki's blanket-covered couch. "Or a puppy."

"He wants a dog?" Loki arches an eyebrow, "That seems easier than getting him a Tesla, doesn't it?"

"May is allergic to pet dander."

"Ah," Loki nods, settling beside him, handing the engineer a crystal glass of brown liquid. 

"Lokes is this—"

"Cider." He supplies. "No alcohol." 

"Oh." He clears his throat. "Thank you."

Everyone in the compound knew about Tony's struggle with alcohol—but none of them as intimately as Loki did. And, believe it or not, he'd come by the information honestly, Tony having  _voluntarily_ offered it up. If you had told the billionaire a few years ago that his closest friend was going to be Loki, the god of mischief, he would have probably laughed in your face. But there it was—an absolutely genuine friendship that he treasured more than most things. 

"That's almost a year, then?" Loki asks, shifting himself onto the couch, "Sober, I mean."

"Yeah." Tony nods. "Feels good."

"It should. You've earned it." Loki offers a small smile, which makes Tony sniffle.

"I don't know about that,"

"You have." Loki repeats. "And you shouldn't doubt that you have—you've made tremendous progress. I am proud of you, Tony."

Tony smiles, and it turns into one of his trademark Stark grins, which makes Loki tut.

"If you utter a word of this to anyone, I'll castrate you." 

"That's hardly fair." Tony complains, rolling his eyes. Then, after a moment, "Thank you. For being here for me. It means a lot." 

"Well, it's a reciprocal friendship we've got here," Loki shrugs, "I listen to you, you listen to me."

"Is that your way of saying 'thank you, too'?" Tony grins.

Loki rolls his eyes, making a dramatic show of the little expression, pairing it with the deepest of sighs, "I suppose it is, Tony. I suppose it is." 

* * *

 

 


	4. when sparring with Barnes goes wrong (or right). NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Steve's adrenaline clashes with Bucky's relentless teasing. (NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This scene contains NSFW content, specifically explicit, sexual content. I would warn you to read at your own risk, but hey, read it on the bus if it floats your boat, bro. Just don't say the sassy author didn't warn you.

* * *

 

"Give me another set." Bucky growls, lifting his mitts up in front of Steve's face. When the blond heaves a sign, he barks, "Let's go.  _Today_ , Rogers."

They were both covered in sweat, but Steve corrects his posture, and runs through another set of the complicated boxing combo Bucky had just gotten done teaching him. Well,  _just_ was relative—he'd actually been taught the initial set of moves about an hour ago, but they'd spent every second since then practicing it. 

"Again." Bucky huffs, just as Steve delivered the final blow of the combination. 

"Buck," Steve pants, "Buddy, I'm wearing through the gloves—we've done this at least a hundred times."

"A hundred and four!" A voice calls from the catwalk above the weight room. It's Sam, leaning on the metal railing , looking down at them. "Since I been standin' here, at least."

"See!"

"Then you should know it _well_." Bucky grumbles.

"Bucky, I do _,_ " 

"Yeah? S' that why you keep hesitating on the uppercut?" Bucky sneers, unstrapping his mitts and tossing them on the weight rack beside them. 

"'M'not hesitating," Steve scoffs, "I just don't want to get too caught up and actually hit you."

Gleaming white teeth appear when Bucky grins. Of  _course_ he would take that as a challenge. "I think I could take it, no?"

"I think you could!" Sam bellows. 

Steve turns, glaring up at him, "Sam—"

"Well, no, I _don't_ think he could take it, but it would be fun to watch you geriatrics go at it." He nods, "Go on, you should slap-box." 

"C'mon Stevie, hit me." Bucky grins, his grey eyes shimmering in the face of a challenge—he was  _never_ one to back down from a good, old-fashioned _'I dare ya'_. 

Steve chokes on the words, "What—No, Buck,"

"C'moooooon." He whines, bouncing up and down in his spot, "Hit me. Hit me!"

"Buck—M'not gonna hit you."

He scoffs, but in a sinfully low voice, he grins "That's real sweet of you, Stevie, being all scared of hurtin' me." 

Steve watches the look on Bucky's face change. His grey eyes had been a cloud of excitement and gall at the challenge, but they were shifting into something darker, something much  _much_ more lofty than just enthusiasm for some dare. Steve can see it—it's in the way his jaw clicks open, the way his lips curl back over his teeth in what Steve could only describe as a smirk, and in the dangerously handsome quirk of his eyebrow. 

His little reference didn't pass over Steve's head, either. See, he  _didn't_ want to hit Bucky because of some stupid dare of Sam's; but just then, he wanted to hit him because he was beet red thinking of his implication.  _In front of Sam?_ he wanted to ask, but he didn't, because in all fairness, Bucky was pushing all the wrong (or _v_ _ery right_ ) buttons.

With a little swing to his walk, Bucky approaches Steve, getting much closer than necessary.

Steve had noticed that sway years ago, when he'd first seen Buck's metal arm up close. The thing was  _heavy_ , and so when Bucky walks leisurely, it weighs that side of his body down, causing an oddly attractive sway.  Steve doesn't mean to smile—to condone Bucky's misbehavior,  _especially_ not in front of Sam—but he can't exactly help it. If Bucky walked _that_ walk, with  _that_ grin on his lips, and  _that_ look in his eyes, Steve's resolve always turned to putty. 

"Y'don't want to hurt me?" Bucky whispers all too loudly, adding to the spectacle Steve knew Sam was witnessing, "Not even a little bit, Stevie?"

Steve takes a deep breath. Adrenaline was rushing through his body—a consequence of Bucky's resilient training—and he's having an exceptionally hard time controlling himself. Blood rushes through him fiercely, heading somewhere it's suddenly needed, somewhere more private. "Maybe just a little." 

And then, just to throw his Stevie over the edge, Bucky's eyes leave Steve's and settle on his lips instead. That  _always_  aroused Steve; Bucky's steely gaze focused on his lips, while all sorts of lewd thoughts went through the brunet's brain—the sheer salaciousness of it all never failed to make America's golden-boy blush. 

"Fuck off for a while, Sammy," Bucky nods, not moving his eyes from Steve's mouth.

Sam, already starting down the catwalk, calls over his shoulder, "You guys are like fuckin'  _teenagers._ "

They hear the loud clicking of the heavy metal door closing behind Sam, and Steve exhales as it stops, " _Buck_ ,"

But Bucky doesn't even let him finish his sentence, his metal hand snakes around the blond's waist, yanking their fronts together in a soft ruffle of fabrics. The air around them grew hot through their pants and gasps, and in an instant, Bucky's got Steve's back against the wall.

"Take that off," Bucky growls, yanking at Steve's compression top. "Off, _now_."

Steve complies, tearing it off of his body in a second, and Bucky's open mouth comes down on Steve's freshly-exposed collar. Bucky  _loved_ the way Steve's skin tasted, always a mix of the salt of his sweat, and the sweetness that just  _was_ Steve's body. He loved it—he'd be perfectly content sitting around all day leaving hickeys all over the blond's body—but he knew Steve better than anyone else in the world, which meant he knew just how impatient he could be.

Just then, his impatience was showing. Bucky's tongue had dipped down from Steve's collar to his nipple, and Steve had begun to whimper little curses under his breath, around a chorus of _"Touch me, Buck,",_ which Bucky responds to with a light nibble on his skin, making the blond writhe. 

"Please?" Steve whines, throwing his head back against the wall, but Bucky is entirely occupied on his chest.

To try to get his way, Steve slides Bucky's hand, his  _metal_ hand, and plants it on his throat, his pale, column of a throat, which he knew Bucky was a sucker for. And it works, because Bucky's head slips back up to the crook of his neck, sucking a pretty pink welt into Steve's skin, while his other hand grabs roughly at the blond's ass. 

Steve couldn't get enough of Bucky, either. He knew how much Bucky liked getting his hands on him and getting to be rough with his new, indestructible body, but the truth was,  _he_ liked it, too. Steve loved having Bucky bend and twist his body into submission, and frankly, just then, he was pining for some of it. So, if that metal hand was just going to settle on his throat and not choke him the way he wanted it too, he'd just have to push some more of Bucky's buttons. 

With a deceptively soft mewl, Steve ruts himself up against Bucky, causing their erections to all but touch, separated only by the soft nylon of their gym shorts. That elicits a dark, promising groan from Bucky, who reaches down to palm Steve. 

A palm through his shorts became a hand  _under_ his shorts, swiping up and down the length of his erection. Bucky knew just how sensitive Steve's head was, so he purposefully avoided that bit, focusing his efforts on the lower end of the shaft, even fanning his fingers out to tease him. His tongue swirls on the reddening bruise on Steve's neck, dipping back once or twice to kiss his lips—lips Bucky thought tasted better than anything else in the world.

Steve's voice starts to hitch now, his vision going cloudy, and the only thing on his mind the wave of pleasure that was growing down south. Bucky grins against the skin of Steve's neck, beginning to offer up the praise he knew Steve wanted, "Mhm, y'so good for me, Stevie,  _so_   _good._ " 

Steve groans a few more curses—a sign to Bucky he was getting close.

"Mhm, be good for me. Go on, Stevie," He coos, "Make a mess for me, all over my fingers."

And, well, how could Steve deny him  _that_? 

Through the orgasm, Bucky peppered soft kisses on Steve's jaw, lips, and neck. Once his body stopped shaking, Bucky's grin returns, and he uses his metal hand to push Steve's hair back, out of his face. "Did you like that?"

"Yeah," Steve pants, a lazy smile taking his lips.

"Good." He hums, nuzzling the blond's neck. "I guess I still owe Sam some money though, huh?"

Steve's laughter fills the room, and soon, Bucky's joins his. 

* * *

 

 

 

 


	5. Perhaps there was a reason Bucky didn't speak Russian often.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a tumblr post I saw. Bucky and Natasha sometimes talk about Steve in Russian, so he decides to learn the language to catch them, but it has an unintended effect. 
> 
> Credit to the account/ full post at the end to prevent ~spoilers~

 

Steve had known that Bucky spoke Russian, even if he didn't do it often. 

It was one of many things that went unsaid these days. None of them would speak of the past if it could be avoided. Natasha didn't talk about the Red Room; Bucky didn't talk about Hydra; Steve didn't talk about being frozen; and Sam didn't talk about Riley. Those things had become venom to them—the slightest mention could shut them down, send them into fits of rage, or cause tremendous, downright  _frightening_  sets of panic; and so as a team, as a _family_ , they recognized their limits and had managed to box those slithery demons up and cast them aside.

But sometimes, they needed a bit of those demons to see them through. Especially Bucky. Whether he liked it or not—and he absolutely did  _not_ —alot of his identity coincided with the soldier. James Barnes didn't have a metal arm. The soldier did. James Barnes didn't know how to flay a living person. The soldier did. 

James Barnes didn't speak Russian; the soldier did. 

Natasha was cut from the same cloth, arguably even moreso. At least James had a version of himself he remembered—his fall had been a catalyst, and he could separate himself from the soldier if he tried. Natalia Romanova had always been the way she was, they'd bred her into existence, and although it was long disenfranchised, the Red Room still owned her. Not her mind; she had a firm grip on that now, but her body, the way she operated, the way she'd been wired to act. 

And although these things remained verbally unsaid, they were still displayed. Steve picked up on it more than anyone else, he thinks. He sees it in the way Natasha looks longingly at happy, healthy children. The way Sam smiles ruefully at happy couples. 

The way Bucky looked at him, with a world of pain behind his bright eyes in one second, and a blank gray stare the next.

Those of them who were less emotionally adept than Steve probably didn't see anything wrong with the four of them. Sometimes, on those painfully normal days where nothing was wrong and all was right in the world, they didn't have to pretend to be fine—the simply were. 

Steve would find a book or two and a warm spot to settle in, and he'd be content for hours. Sam would fly his falcon suit around the compound, not strategically, not for any reason other than to feel the wind on his face and see the trees from the sky. The other two, however, tended to get into a whole lot more trouble. 

For starters, they had a habit of sparring all too dangerously, resulting in at least one of them being minorly hurt. Or, they'd wiggle their way into one of Stark's lab rooms and end up breaking something they shouldn't have. But sometimes— _sometimes_ —they were just as content being somewhere near Steve, reading as well or watching something on television. 

Steve would catch them sometimes—Bucky laid back, looking relaxed for the first time in what could have been months, with his long metal hand draped over Natasha's shoulder. And Nat would settle there like she was built to fit just there, with her hair fanned out over his arm and her cheek against him. Sometimes, she'd even fall asleep. Steve didn't dare comment on it, lest he shatter that picturesque domesticity; so he'd simply take a long moment to observe them. Sometimes he could stare for a solid few minutes before Bucky would catch him looking, and hit him with one of those little smiles he knew Steve loved so much. Steve hoarded moments like that like they were gold. 

Sometimes, Steve would catch them before one of them dozed off. They'd look at him the same way he looked at them. He'd look up from his book and catch them—both with little smiles on their faces, talking, presumably about him. One time he'd tried to listen—only to realize that they were not speaking english. 

The sharp harsh sound of Russian didn't sound right coming from them, he thought. It may fit the way they  _looked_ , caustic and austere, but it didn't fit who they _were,_ soft inside and warm. At first they must not have known they'd begun thinking out loud in another language, but eventually, it became a thing. They began doing it  _because_ they knew Steve didn't understand them. And Steve? Well, Steve was more than willing to play dumb if it kept them smiling. 

Sometimes, the words rattled off of them with the hint of a laugh in between syllables. Sometimes they spoke solemnly. And eventually, Steve couldn't stand the exclusivity. 

So, he bought an audiobook.  _Russian for Dummies._

And after a few weeks, he'd catch little snippets. 

Like them in the kitchen, Natasha grumbling sleepily,  _"Did you have the last of the coffee?"_ and Bucky replying, _"No. I left you some."_

Then it came when they'd settled across from him and his sketchbook. Bucky had leaned over to Nat and hummed out low, _"You know, he doesn't ever see how good his work is? Only ever nitpicks the errors. Won't even let me see most of it."_ To which Natasha replied,  _"He does know his art is in the Smithsonian?"._ That made Bucky laugh, and mumble,  _"They've got his first suit in the Smithsonian too. Probably down to the red, white, and blue briefs."_

Steve had a hard time not smiling at things like that, but he couldn't drop the facade—it was getting interesting. 

One day, he'd caught them poking fun at him. Bucky had watched him lean forward to grab another pencil off of the coffee table, then murmured out real low,  _"I haven't seen him in those pants for a while_. _"_. Natasha had taken a quick look at him and nodded, _"They fit him well."_ Then Bucky had gotten that look on his face, the one Steve could never quite get over. His eyes seemed to widen and narrow at the same time, his lips pouted out a bit, and his jaw would flex slightly—and Steve never could be held accountable for anything that happened when he was given that look from his best guy. 

His remedial Russian skills had become a window into two of his best friend's minds, and he was grateful for it, even if it did feel like eavesdropping. 

Until, one night after the calm of of their off-days were replaced with the hectic, crazy norm that had become their careers. Steve had been trapped—completely flanked by the enemy, and Bucky had been isolated—safely isolated—on the other side, unable to help whatsoever. It had taken Tony and the Iron Legion to get Steve out, and although he was safe and completely untouched, Bucky had very clearly lost his mind. He'd snapped at just about everyone—even had to be pulled off of Tony, who'd made the mistake of suggesting he wouldn't have had to save Steve if the others had just done what they were told. 

That night, they fell asleep the way they did after something scary happened on the field: Bucky on his side, with both arms wrapped around Steve, cradling him against his chest, just like they had on cold nights in Brooklyn. Steve never complained, even if the position was more difficult to maintain now that they were both six feet tall. He just settled there, in the crook of Bucky's neck, because he knew it was where Bucky needed him to be. 

But that night, he noticed something. 

 _"No..."_ Steve thought he'd heard, just the breath of the word, sounding so helpless, so broken, that it Steve didn't think it could be _his_ Bucky. And after a minute, he realized that it wasn't. Not the Bucky he could recognize. 

 _"Take the girl,"_ He hears—he definitely heard it this time, the gruff grumble of Russian. It was Bucky's voice, but they weren't his words. 

"Buck?" Steve asked, reaching a hand out to skim the sharp edge of Bucky's jaw. 

 _"Nothing you say_ ," He breathes, and shifts a bit in the thick of sleep,  _"Makes this end any differently."_

Steve felt a pit open up on his stomach. The way the words rolled off of his tongue, the sheer insouciance of his voice made Steve shiver. 

 _"Doesn't..."_ He trailed off, then hummed, " _want to talk,"_ His arms tightened around Steve,  _"then take his tongue_. _"_  

Steve didn't know when the tears started falling, but soon, there was a damp spot on Bucky's black t-shirt. He didn't dare move, though. He just stayed as still as humanly possible, and tried not to shiver at the cold touch of Bucky's metal hand on his back.

Perhaps there was a reason Bucky didn't speak Russian often. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was based on a post by imaginebucky on tumblr: 
> 
> "imagine bucky and natasha whispering behind steve's back in russian, just little harmless things like "he's so cute when he's angry" and "if you tell him he's got a nice ass, he'll turn the color of your hair" so steve decides he's gonna learn some russian so he can understand what they're saying about it, but it has an unintended side effect. bucky mumbles in his sleep when he's restless, sometimes english or spanish or japanese, but most often in russian. usually it's a litany of "don't make me don't make make me please stop don't make me i don't want to" but every now and then it'll be something along the lines of "begging for your life won't make a fucking difference to me" and steve can't decide which is worse"
> 
> Which....wow. It started off real cute and then got fucking terrifying which is EXACTLY my writing style, so I hope I paid it justice! xx


End file.
